Eclectic Inspirations
by Lilou88
Summary: This is the beginning of what will be my collection of dibbles and drabbles that are too short to post as full stories on their own. Most likely the things posted here will center around Fenris, F!Hawke or both, with other characters included as their stories come to me, if at all. Subjects / ratings will evolve as fics are posted, and each chapter will be a standalone blurb.
1. Scarred

**A/N: **This ficlet was inspired by an amazing piece of artwork of a scarred Fenris done and posted on Tumblr by gunwieldingspacebitch, who has been kind enough to allow me to post this with her drawing as a muse. You can find this piece (along with many others) on her blog, which I would provide a link for if FF would allow them in a post. :/

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**Scarred**

A single glance is all that is needed to know Fenris' body is that of a damaged man. There is no hiding his brands from the eyes of passersby, no sanctuary to be found from fools too tangled in their webs of morbid fascination to grant him the decency of indifference. Whispers of "The Scarred Elf" trail behind him like a ship's wake through placid waters whenever he dares venture from the confines of his stolen mansion, their sound an ever present buzzing in his ears. The murmurs and blatant stares should anger him, should stoke his ire and provoke him into a feral rage worthy of his namesake, but he feels nothing of the sort in their presence. Rather he cannot help but smirk in grim amusement, humor fed by his certainty that these highborn louts are incapable of fathoming the accuracy of the title they have bestowed upon him.

He knows that it is the cruel elegance of the lyrium embedded in his skin which has earned him the designation, though these mars do not even begin to scratch the surface of what sits below layers of leather and steel or lies out in the open, only to be overlooked in favor of what is most prominent. There is a small notch missing from the flat of one ear, cut away by a knife intended for his master's throat. Puckers and silver-white lines nearly invisible with age pepper his limbs and torso, they the last remnants of countless arrows and blades taken in the name of the man who held his leash. A mound of raised flesh the size of a closed fist rests in the center of his sternum, the mark of a rival magister too bound by political standing to take out her anger on the true source of her discontent.

Similar gnarls of varying sizes spread across his back like the roots of an upturned tree, reaching from the curve of his hips to the tops of his shoulders. Matching gouges encircle both his wrists and ankles, carved into them by the pull and jerk of his own body against the shackles which left him exposed to the full brunt of a slaver's whip. Broken bones received from more enthusiastic beatings curve his spine forward in an unnatural angle, their healing process hindered by the weight of a sword Danarius would have sooner seen him fall upon than put down.

No, there is no denying that Fenris is a damaged man, ripped and torn to shreds like the countless paintings left to rot in the halls of his derelict home. And yet when he looks upon himself, catches glimpses of the scars and brands in the shattered remains of a mirror or the surface of his wash basin, he greets them not with disdain, but a thrum of pride. For these marks are a testament to trials endured and survived, to strength both physical and metaphorical he knows not all are so lucky to possess.

Yes, he is damaged. Damaged, but not broken. And that is a distinction he will wear as a badge of honor until the end of his days.


	2. A Not So Fond Farewell

**A/N: **This drabble was originally going to be the start to another story of mine called Acquiescence, hence the similarities those of you who have read it will most likely notice. I ultimately decided that its tone did not fit with where I wanted to go with that particular fic, so I started Acquiescence over, but kept this as I thought it offered an interesting perspective on one of the ways Hawke may have dealt with (or, probably more accurately, celebrated) Danarius' death. There's nothing like a little retribution for the person who put the man you love through hell, am I right?

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**A Not So Fond Farewell**

After six years of constant worry and trepidation, Danarius was finally dead. Cut down most poetically in the midst of his own ambush while surrounded by a blaze of burning lyrium, the last moments of his life snuffed out by the very man he had hunted like some prized beast. The act of vengeance, while not her own, had been as sweet as nectar on Hawke's tongue, its taste made potent by the triumph which had shone in Fenris' eyes as she watched his hand tighten around his tormentor's neck.

There had been none of her usual remorse for this kill, no regret churning in the pit of her stomach as she had glowered at the broken corpse of the Magister at her feet. Rather the only regret which had crossed her mind was the fact that her healing abilities did not possess the strength needed to bring the bastard back long enough for her to send him to the Void a second time.

She had taken it upon herself to see to the disposal of the carcass, returning to the Hanged Man in the wee hours of the night to drag it like the refuse it was through dark and shadowed streets. The gesture was not one done out of necessity. Aveline's guardsmen would have been informed of the incident at the tavern shortly after it had taken place, leading to a few unlucky recruits being assigned the task of collecting the remains before the next morning's sunrise. From there the body would be brought to the Chantry cellars where Sisters would prepare it for cremation, washing and dressing it with care and respect, all while blissfully unaware of the innumerable horrors their charge had wrought while still in life.

It had been this realization which had spurred Hawke to action, the idea of the sadist being afforded any form of a dignified funeral an atrocity she simply could not stomach. There would be no prayers spoken over his husk or final blessings offered as the flames of a pyre licked at garish Tevinter robes, not if she were to have any say in it. Such things were meant for men, not monsters.

It took her far longer to reach the bottom of the Darktown passageways than was usual, her progress hindered by the awkwardness and weight of her unorthodox companion. Not that she felt any amount of annoyance because of it. On the contrary, she reveled in the moments of the corpse's desecration, each crack and thump of the man's skull against the packed earthen floor only feeding the satisfaction she felt in carrying her burden.

Eventually their final destination was found in a long abandoned mine shaft, its entrance hidden away in the farthest reaches of the sewer's depths where not even the poorest of the city's refugees deigned to tread. Hawke paused in her work upon their arrival, throwing Danarius unceremoniously along the edge of the pit long enough to catch her breath and wipe the sweat from her brow. A cold laugh fell from her lips as she eyed the muck and grime which coated the once immaculately groomed Magister. At least now he more accurately resembled the piece of filth he was.

Hawke stepped behind the man's remains, placing one foot at the small of his back and turning him over so that he was face down in the mud, an arm and leg left dangling over the precipice of the cesspool which was soon to be his tomb. She repositioned herself again, poised and ready for the final push, when a strip of dark leather poking out of the pocket of Danarius' robes caught her eye. Curiosity getting the better of her, she bent down to scoop up the item, unfolding it as she stood.

White hot fury flared as she glared at the strap, her face contorting as her hands balled themselves into fists around it. Her eyes shot to the dead mage once more, bile biting at the back of her throat as she struggled to maintain the modicum of calm she had regained in the long hours since his demise.

A collar, smoothed and worn from frequent use, decorated with a fine silver clasp and embroidery which matched the stitching along the hem of Fenris' jerkin perfectly. And here she had thought her revulsion of the beast had reached its peak.

Hawke forced herself to close her eyes, her chest rising and falling with the intake of several deep, calming breaths while her fingers slowly relaxed their death grip. A small flame burst into life in the center of her hands to dance along her flattened palms, engulfing the band in a matter of seconds. Soon enough all which remained of the contemptible thing was the metal clasp, tossed down to the dregs of the mine shaft without a second thought, and the pungent odor of burning leather left hanging in the air.

Without further preamble or fuss Danarius was pushed fully into the pit, the sound of his crashing descent as she turned to leave music to Hawke's ears.


	3. Hesitance

**A/N: **Fenris doesn't take kindly to Zevran's advances towards Hawke, and her snark is not helping the situation. ... Oh Maker, what have I attempted this time? *blush*

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**Hesitance**

The door to the bedchamber has no more than clicked into place before Hawke finds herself pushed into it, air leaving her lungs in a rush as the weight of a decidedly piqued elf presses itself along the length of her back. She works to free her arms from her sides, using them as leverage while she braces herself upon the polished wood, her assailant's breath hot on the back of her neck.

"If I didn't know any better," she says with a chuckle which quickly shifts to a rattled gasp, the man's teeth digging into the curve of her shoulder, "I'd say I'm detecting a hint of jealously."

She receives a heated snarl in response, the sound enough to have her toes curling in her boots. "He propositioned you," the man says angrily, voice rough against the shell of her ear while clawed hands come to rest at her waist, "and you made no attempt to refuse him. Why?"

Hawke bites back a groan as he moves closer to her still, her eyes closing at the feel of his armor through the cloth of her robes. The friction stokes the heat already pooling in her belly, and it is a struggle to keep her voice steady and free of mirth when she speaks next. "Can you blame me? He was a _very _handsome elf, after all, and you know how much I appreciate a good voice."

He growls at her flippancy, the sharp points of his gauntlets digging into her hips to send her lashes fluttering while pins and needles dance along her spine. Her brow falls into the flat of the door as she dips forward, panted breaths coming heavier as one of his hands trails up her back to snake into her hair. Firm fingers clutch around the tresses and gently tilt her head to one side, lips pressing themselves to the sensitive spot of skin just below her ear.

"You are a terrible liar, Hawke," the man says in annoyance, nipping at her flesh before laving the sting away with his tongue and making her shudder. "I would have you speak the truth."

"To be frank, you didn't exactly give me much time to respond, Fenris," she says honestly, voice little more than a sigh as she leans into the man's caress, eager for harder, faster, _more_. "Besides, your little tirade was plenty enough to get the message across. I barely had time to blink before you'd started glowing and making death threats."

The elf comes to a halt behind her, mouth and hands pausing in their attentions to make Hawke whine in disapproval, her body writhing against his as she silently begs him not to stop. He responds to her enthusiasm with a thick grunt and short buck of hips, but his self-control is stronger than her own and still he does not continue. Instead his lips find her ear once more, placing a kiss so suddenly tender in its purpose that she cannot help but be taken aback.

"My hesitance has already cost me a great deal," he says solemnly, voice low and filled with some unknowable emotion which pulls at something buried deep within Hawke's chest, "Three years without you - without your touch. I would not see myself make the same mistake twice. I hope you can forgive my brashness."

She feels her heart stutter and skip at Fenris' words, its fluttered beats sending wave upon wave of affection for the proud, prickly man coursing through her veins. A smile spreads across her face as she leans backwards to rest her head upon his shoulder, the elf's hand falling to her arm as she presses a kiss of her own to the corner of his mouth.

"Well, far be it from me to chastise such honorable intentions," she says quietly, her voice catching only slightly on the lump which has risen in the base of her throat before she pulls herself back into the moment. "Now, if it's all the same to you, I would be most appreciative if we could pick up on where we left off before we so thoroughly sidetracked ourselves. What do you say?"

He gives a wicked grin in answer, a pair of hungry green eyes glinting with promise.

"It would be my pleasure."


	4. Unpleasant Preparations

**A/N: **I started this drabble with every intention of keeping it well within a few hundred words. As you can see, all did not go according to plan. This ficlet came out of my musing over how I thought Malcolm and Leandra would teach their children to react should templars come to call, a sort of "apostate's fire drill" if you will. Then Malcolm's personal feelings on the matter and guilty conscience started coming into the picture, and next thing I know this is where we're at, well past drabble length and on our way to one-shot. Hope you enjoy regardless!

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**Unpleasant Preparations**

The autumn night is crisp, chilled by brisk winds which race between trees lining the edge of an overgrown forest. Their bare branches jostle in the gust, rattling together like bones while fallen leaves dance amongst gnarled roots. Just beyond the border of woods and field a small farmhouse stands sentry in the dark, its thatched roof and lines of planted crops the only landmark seen amidst endless waves of grass. Thick clouds shift in the sky, allowing a ray of moonlight to fall across a broad-shouldered man, its glow catching in the silver strands peppered through his sable hair and beard. He rests against the weathered post of a fence, blunt fingers picking absently at the wood as he stares towards the front door of his home, the corners of his eyes taut with unspoken concerns.

"Are you certain this is a good idea?" the woman beside him asks nervously, breath falling as mist to swirl about her feet while her arms fold firmly to her chest. "It's much colder than I expected. They'll all catch their deaths if they wander too far."

"They'll be fine," the man says, glancing towards her to offer what he means to be a reassuring grin, though he knows it comes off as insincere. "Marian's a smart girl, she's not about to go running off into the night without her cloak."

"She's _eight_, Malcolm, and the twins barely three," she says, voice threaded with a mother's anxiety. "Having enough clothes won't matter if they get themselves lost."

"We've shown her the way more times than I can remember. She could find it with her eyes closed if we asked her to."

"But she's never done it on her own or when she thought there was any real danger. Don't you think it would be best to have them go during the day without all the theatrics? Bethy and Carver are going to be terrified."

Malcolm's head dips, mouth thinning against the long borne guilt her words have woken from dormancy. It coils around him like a snake, hisses through a forked tongue at the need for ones so young to know such fear, to learn how best to flee a Templar's trap alongside their numbers and letters. His fault, it chides, his selfish desire for kin to blame for their lives spent as fugitives, their eldest daughter forever condemned by the same magic-tainted blood which courses through his veins.

He does his best to quell its voice, shoving the thoughts away as he pushes from the fence to face his wife. Their eyes meet as he looks to her, the same apprehension he hides reflected in the tension of her jaw and knitted brows. Brown hair pulled free from her plait flutters in the breeze, framing a face lined with worries far beyond what her years should allow.

"I don't relish the thought of frightening them anymore than you do, Leandra," he says solemnly, raising a wide hand to tuck a strand behind her ear, "but we need to know she'll be ready. If they come while we're gone they certainly won't wait until sunrise to break down the door."

Lashes drift shut as she leans into his touch, expression softening the slightest bit as his thumb brushes along her cheek. Her arms lower to wrap around his waist, body falling flush to his while her head settles into the dip of his shoulder. She smells of fresh baked bread and dried wildflowers. A slight smile passes over his mouth as he brings her close, the comfort found in the familiarity of their embrace a welcome balm for his fears.

"It all seems too soon," she says, mumbling the words into his neck.

His grip around her tightens as he presses his lips to the top of her head. "Better they learn now than wait until it's too late."

"I know," she says through a heavy sigh, pulling back to place a kiss at the corner of his jaw. He watches with no small thrum of pride as her resignation quickly fades to resolve, the determined spark he has come to so cherish returning to her eyes as she steps away. "Come on then, let's have this done and over with. I want them back home within the hour."

Malcolm nods, turning from Leandra to move silently towards their home, its eaves casting him in deep shadow as he reaches the front door. He lingers on the landing, a balled hand raised and left hanging in the air. The snake is in his ear once more, its words dripping with contempt as it wraps its tail around his heart, scales digging into wounds which will never fully heal. With a new pang of self-loathing twisting in his gut, he pounds his fist against the wood, the noise deafening as it tears through the night's silence.

He shouts, nothing of his own voice left in the harsh bark which escapes him. "In the name of the Maker and by the authority of the Divine Faustine the Second, I command you to open this door!"

The effect is instantaneous, his home torn from slumber before the last word has left his lips. Both twins are awake and whimpering, their cries shrill as something drops to the floor with a dull thud. Hastened footsteps flit across the floorboards, a girl's hushed call for her mother and father just loud enough to be heard through thin-planked walls. There is the muffled clack of wooden slats, and Malcolm knows Marian has shoved aside the screen which separates their bed from the rest of the one room home, only to find it empty and cold.

A frightened gasp reaches his ear, its sound making him cringe as he continues. "We know you're in there, apostate! Surrender yourself peacefully, and no harm will come to you! Resist, and we will not hesitate to put you down!"

More rushed movement, his daughter darting about the room. The hinges of the door creak as he beats his fist against the door once more.

"This is your last warning! Come out now or we draw weapons!"

A crash, the sound of shattered glass and toppled furniture. She is running now, panicked, all attempts for caution and stealth abandoned in her haste. Bethany is sobbing, Carver wailing for his sister. Malcolm's chest aches, each breath he draws shooting agony through lungs which feel as though they are wrapped in barbed wire. He hates this. Hates its necessity and those who make it so. Muttered damnations of Maker, man and self fall from his lips like stones, unheard over the slam of their home's back door.

Quick as lightening he is off of the stoop and skirting around the side of the building, unwilling to forgo the reassurance that his children have fled in the right direction for the sake of maintaining his facade. In a few long strides he is at the back of the house, turning the corner just in time to see Marian slip past the first row of trees, the twins pulled along in her wake as she hurries them into the safety of the forest's darkness. Malcolm breathes a sigh of relief and drags his fingers through his hair as Leandra pulls even beside him.

"How did they do?" she asks, panting from her rush to join him.

He shrugs, eyes trained on where his children disappeared from sight. "Not bad for their first go. They were much too loud, but that's to be expected. Nothing that can't be fixed with more practice."

She moves closer to place her hand in his, feet shuffling through dried grass. She asks, "How long should we wait before we go after them?"

"Another moment or two," he says heavily. "We need to give them a good lead so they know they aren't being followed. By the time they reach the clearing they'll have calmed down enough not to run the moment they hear us coming."

He swallows hard, throat straining around the lump which has risen at its base as his eyes fall away to stare at the ground. Guilt returns once more to settle about his shoulders, neck and back bending like a sapling in a summer storm under the press of its growing weight. He makes to pull away, but Leandra's grip tightens around his fingers, gentle yet insistent in her intention to keep him near.

"Malcolm?" she asks tentatively, reaching out to touch the curve of his arm. "Is everything all right?"

He turns to her, cursing himself as he forces a wide grin and a wink. "Perfectly fine, dear, just a little over tired. It is awfully late. I'm no spring chicken anymore, after all."

She quirks a brow in disbelief, sees all too easily how his smile does not reach his eyes, and he knows he has been found out. Her gaze flicks back and forth across his face, finding old sorrows and remorse for the burdens his magic has placed upon the ones he loves hidden behind his false cheer. Leandra's lips purse, thumb rubbing slowly against a calloused knuckle in an unspoken promise of a conversation which will come later, once the night has ended and emotions are not so raw.

"Well then," she says, her tone turned light as she smirks at him, "we wouldn't want to keep an old man from his bed any longer than he need be. Let's find the children and get ourselves home. It's high time we started apologizing for scaring them out of their wits, anyway."

Gratitude stirs in his breast, her acceptance of his reticence a much appreciated gift. He smiles back, genuine this time, as he steps to her side to offer her his arm. She takes it, nestles herself close as they trudge the first steps towards the woods.

"Couldn't agree with you more, Love," he says sincerely, a serpent's hiss still ringing in the back of his mind. "Couldn't agree with you more."


	5. A Valiant Effort

**A/N: **Just a short look into what I imagine Fenris' train of thought may have been going into his interaction with Hawke after All That Remains. Hope you enjoy!

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**A Valiant Effort**

He has paced outside Hawke's chamber for the better part of the past hour, head bent and hands clasped behind his back while instinct wages war against a compulsion which refuses to abate. He knows he has no good reason, no _right _to go to her now, not when the stench of forge smoke and forbidden magics still hangs thick in the air. He would only bring her more grief, his presence an insult to her mourning when he himself is guilty of his own crimes against her.

Rough fingers drag themselves through his hair as he scowls in frustration down to his feet, still moving as they continue to wear a rut into an expensive Orlesian rug. As though anything he could possibly offer would provide her comfort. He is not a gentle man, no poet with a bleeding heart and arsenal of words to form the platitudes so often associated with the death of a loved one. Neither has he any true knowledge of what it is Hawke has come to lose, what little concept he has of family limited to the few strands he managed to grasp in the whirlwind of his returned memories. A flash of dark hair, the heat of the Seheron sun, the whisper of a name he does not recall, all infuriating in their uselessness. And yet -

And yet he cannot leave now, not after having come so far. He can hear Hawke just beyond this blighted door, broken sobs and jagged breaths rising to match the sorrow she had so masterfully kept in check while in the bowels of a foundry cellar. It hurts him to hear it now, his lungs pulled tighter with each new keen and heart aching as though he has seen fit to reach inside his own chest. Soon muffled speech begins to join the cries, damnations of the Maker mixing with repeated pleas for answers.

"Why?" he hears her ask, voice hoarse and rasped as it claws its way up a throat turned raw. "Why her? Maker, why _now_? After everything that's happened – my fault, all my fault. I didn't try hard enough. It should have been me, he should have taken me instead."

Fenris' feet are moving before his head has managed to stop reeling from shock at her words, better judgment abandoned faster than a sinking ship as he reaches for the handle of her door. An image of Hawke has risen in his mind, cold and lifeless in a tattered white dress, eyes open but unseeing as she stares into nothing from a packed earthen floor. Unacceptable. Caution and good sense be damned, but he will not permit the woman to carry on yearning for her own such demise a moment longer, not when the thought of her wishing to join the ranks of the dead is enough to send ice curling in his stomach.

It is a fool's decision, he thinks to himself as he steps over the threshold and Hawke halts her weeping to raise her head from her hands. Rash, hurried, unwise in every sense of the word. Yet here he stands, dumbfounded beyond all reason to see how relief pours over her like water at his approach, lessening the tension of her shoulders and easing the harshest lines on a tear-stained face. A fool's decision, no doubt. But the right one as well.

"I don't know what to say, but I am here."


	6. Seven Deadly Sins

**A/N: **This is what happens when I let myself contemplate completely irrelevant things when I should be working on the chapters of my other stories - you guys get micro drabbles thrown together in all of five minutes. I hope they're enjoyable nonetheless!

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**Seven Deadly Sins**

**Pride**

Merrill walks away from the Dalish camp, aravels and her people both left behind as she presses forward with head held high. Behind her she pulls a borrowed hand cart which holds a large bundle wrapped in canvas, a corner of cracked glass peaking out to catch a ray of sunlight.

**Envy**

A young Sebastian Vael is being lead towards a modest carriage by a withered Sister of the Chantry. He glares over his shoulder, brows knit and mouth twisted, at the shapes of a well dressed man and woman, the two sons they wished to keep held close at their sides.

**Gluttony **

Gamlen sits at a table in the Blooming Rose fit to bursting with food and drink, a spilled purse of coins which are not his to spend abandoned at his elbow. One arm is wrapped tight around the buxom serving girl who perches in his lap, his mouth watering to see the heavily laden tray she offers him with a smile.

**Lust **

Isabela is naked beneath a mass of tangled sheets, bandanna off kilter and satisfied grin firmly in place as she lounges between the bedpartners she keeps for the night.

**Wrath**

Fenris wields his fury in battle with the same mastery he holds over his sword, all fierce snarls and blue lyrium light which would strike fear into the heart of the poor soul bleeding at his feet, had it not already been torn from their chest.

**Greed**

Varric sits at the head of his table, a hand's worth of cards spread before him on its surface. A tumbler of dwarven brandy is raised to his lips, no doubt in an effort to hide the proud smirk he wears as he collects his fourth winning round's earnings from exasperated friends.

**Sloth **

Anders, young with a golden hoop in one ear and face not yet lined by the self-inflicted burdens of a revolutionary, lounges backwards in his chair with eyes closed and head cradled in his hands. On the table before him lay several scattered and opened books, their pages vandalised by caricatures of Templars caught in a variety of embarrassing incidents, one of which involves a cat labeled "Mr. Wiggums" clawing angrily at a man's eyes.


End file.
